Glen St Mary, Canada
December 2013

Someday you'll pay the price

"There you are, darling," comes Mum's voice from behind me. I turn to look at her.

"Your sister has commandeered my kitchen, but I thought we could offer our assistance," she suggests with a smile.

I slip my phone into my skirt pocket and walk over to where Mum's standing by the door. "Where's Grandmother Marilla?" I want to know

After all, she's usually Joy's opposite in the yearly wrangle of who gets control of the Ingleside kitchen at Christmas. It's generally a toss-up who wins (and Jem has been known to take bets on it), but it reliably means that everyone else is surplus to requirements and better stays out of that kitchen if they value their sanity.

"She went to lie down. She has been feeling under the weather a bit lately," explains Mum.

I nod, sighing. "They're not getting any younger," I point out, meaning all three of my grandparents. Grandma Bertha is quite mobile again after her hip replacement, but Grandmother Marilla's eyesight has increasingly been troubling her and Grandpa never goes anywhere without his cane anymore.

"None of us are," replies Mum, looking a little wistful. "You all grew up on me far too quickly, too. Sometimes, it's hard to believe than none of my babies are babies anymore."

Laughing, I reach out to put an arm over her shoulders. "Aw, Mum. You're getting sentimental!"

"I'm not sentimental!" protests Mum. "As I told your father, I understand that it is good and necessary that all of you flew the nest. I just might, on occasion, find myself wishing you wouldn't all have flown so far."

She has a point there. With Jem and Faith having left for their African adventure, there's none of us left in Halifax permanently – or even anywhere close to it. My geography is a little wobbly, so I wouldn't put money on it, but there's a good chance that Joy on New York might actually be the one living closest to Mum and Dad these days and she's in an entire different country!

"There's always a possibility that one of us will come back one day," I comfort Mum as I steer her towards the staircase.

"Will you?" she asks and when I look at her, I can see that far from being wistful, she looks alert now.

I shrug, brushing off the question. "I like London."

It's not what she asked and we both know it, but we've reached the bottom of the stairs and are thus engulfed in the general Christmas melee, meaning that even if Mum wanted to press the matter, she doesn't get to now. This is hardly the place for serious discussions and not even Mum can ignore that fact.

I feel her glancing at me from the side, but resolutely look ahead and remark brightly, "Whoever chose the music today was clearly out to torture poor Dad."

Because ever since we returned from church, one abysmal Christmas pop song after the next has been forcing its way into our ear drums. We already went through Mariah Carey crooning All I Want For Christmas, had Bing Crosby wishing us a White Christmas, listened to Dean Martin beg Let It Snow, accompanied Chris Rea while he was Driving Home for Christmas and are now being subjected to the multi-star arrangement of Do They Know It's Christmas?. We're really only missing Last Christmas to round out the auditory torture.

"I think Walter was feeling the holiday spirit," explains Mum, herself humming along to whichever member of Band Aid is currently belting out their part of the lyrics. (Was there ever a worse pun in the history of music than Band Aid, I wonder?)

Thankfully, it proves to be much quieter in the kitchen, with just Joy pottering away in preparation of today's dinner. The only other creature present is Monday who sits smack dab in the middle of the room and doesn't take his eyes off Joy, clearly hoping for some scraps to fall his way.

"Look, Mum! We might have moved away, but you've got Monday with you now!" I remind Mum cheerfully, alluding to the fact that with Jem and Faith gone, our parents got custody of the dog.

Mum gives me a look. "Monday is a very good dog, but having him live with us isn't comparable to having my much beloved children close."

"I don't know," I muse, while crossing over to pat the dog's head. He smiles up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Sometimes, a pet can be much better company than a person."

"That cat really does have you well-trained," remarks Joy and grins at me over a large bowl filled with – something.

I just shrug in response, mostly because I can't contradict her. George does have me well-trained and of course, he's absolutely of the opinion that a pet – well, a cat – is the best company to be had.

"Is Ken looking after George while you're here?" enquires Mum as she walks to the stove to inspect the content of one of the pots. Joy hurries after her and swats her hand away.

"Ken's in Scotland," I answer, letting my fingers move to scratch Monday's ears. "His friend Damian is looking after George until I come back."

Mum wisely steps back from the stove without any more interference. "He is celebrating Christmas with his family?" she asks, meaning, presumably, Ken.

I shake my head. "He's on duty at the air force station he's training at over both Christmas and New Year's."

"Really?" Joy looks surprised. "You would have thought he could pull ranks to be given leave or something."

"He wouldn't!" I protest, feeling a little indignant on Ken's behalf. "And besides, he already took his leave earlier this month so we could see each other before I came here."

It wasn't long, but it was glorious. (And it went quite a way to silence any doubts Toppy and Mark might have kindled in me about Ken and our relationship.) Not having seen him since September, just being close to him again felt like Heaven. Accordingly, we spent most of the time holed up in his Kensington Palace apartment, just relishing each other's company. Of course, Marcia was less than happy when I asked for several days leave at the beginning of December and then another week over Christmas, but I put my foot down. When she realised that yes, I actually would quit over this, rent and bills and everything be damned, she grudgingly acquiesced. Apparently, whatever premium they're charging their clients to have me serve the food is enough that they don't want to give up on it long-term, even if it means missing me during part of the busy Christmas party season.

"When will his training be over?" Mum enquires, absent-mindedly rolling a potato between her fingers. Joy reaches over and plucks it from her hands.

I grimace. "May."

To think that it'll be almost another half a year before he comes back to London… it's ridiculous. Plainly absurd.

"What is he doing up there anyway?" Joy wants to know, picking up a knife and starting to peel the potatoes. "I thought he was done with the army."

"Air force," I correct. "And yes, it did look like his active military days were behind him, but he was never able to fully finish his pilot training. He was missing the part where they train them on a particular type of aircraft."

"And he's doing that now?" asks Mum, valiantly trying to look supportive and interested.

I nod, burrowing my fingers in Monday's fur. "He's being trained on the Tornado fighter jets."

"Fighter jets," repeats Mum slowly.

Unconsciously, I twist Monday's fur around my fingers. He whines softly and I let go, giving him an apologetic pat.

"Look, I know you don't approve of him being active in the military, but for him, that comes with the job," I point out. (It's odd. I'd give a lot for Ken to drop that training and return to London – return to me –, but when he's being criticised for it, I feel strangely protective of his choices.)

Mum sighs. "It's not that I disapprove of his involvement specifically. I just don't agree with the concept in general. History has shown that more often than not, the military has been used to oppress rather than to free the people."

Ugh, what is this? Pacifism101?

"I consider it fairly unlikely that the British military has a secret plan for the oppression of the masses," I remark pointedly. Monday, perhaps sensing my change in emotion, wiggles his muzzle into my hand.

"That's not quite what I meant," replies Mum, sounding maddeningly reasonable.

Monday experimentally starts licking my fingers and though I pull them away quickly, I respond by scratching his ears. He seems to consider that an acceptable compromise, thumping his tail loudly against the kitchen floor.

For a few moments, that's the only sound heard in the kitchen and those moments are enough for the annoyance to leave me. "I think Ken enjoys the military because it feels like an equaliser to him. He can pretend to be among equals when with his fellow officers," I explain, suddenly feeling tired. "And besides, it's not like he'll ever put that training to use, is it? It's not like they'll ever let him fight an actual war."

"His father did, though, didn't he? During the Falkland war," pipes up Joy over her potatoes. "I read it on his Wikipedia page."

I look up at her, surprised. "You read Owen's Wikipedia page?"

She nods, looking a little defensive. "I was educating myself. I read yours, too."

"I have a Wikipedia page?" I ask, now full-on incredulous.

"Indeed you have one," confirms Joy, her expression turning a little smug at knowing something I don't. "I'm surprised you've never seen it, but then, that would explain why it still uses that not very attractive picture of you out shopping. It makes you look like you have a double chin. You really should replace it with something more flattering."

"A Wikipedia page?" I repeat, still unable to wrap my mind around it. "Isn't that for people who have, who know, accomplished something?"

"Something more than –" Joy abruptly stops herself and looks over to Mum. "Something more than, ahem, dating a prince." It's clear to everyone but Monday that 'dating' wasn't the word she initially meant to say and I throw her a dirty look.

Mum herself is clearly hiding a smile. "Some people might say any stable relationship is an accomplishment," she remarks peacefully. "And apart from that, I do understand why you are notable enough to warrant your own Wikipedia page. There's certainly a lot of interest in your life."

Don't I know it!

"You really haven't seen it?" probes Joy and throws the last of the potatoes into a water-filled pot. "Don't you ever google yourself?"

"To be confronted with nasty articles about how I dared wear the same coat twice in a row or how my flat is allegedly located in a drug trading hotspot, how I'm cheating on Ken with alternatively his friend, my friend or his brother, or how my job secretly requires me to wear and then not wear a French maid costume?" I ask sarcastically. "No thanks, I'll pass."

Mum and Joy exchange a glance, before Mum comes over and rubs my shoulder comfortingly. "Is it very bad?"

"I try not to read it, but over there, it's hard to escape completely," I tell them, sighing. "There's rarely a day when I'm not in one of the papers and usually, they come up with pure drivel, one lie more outrageous than the next. Some weeks ago, apparently, there were a flurry of bets placed on me being pregnant and the ironic thing about that was that I hadn't seen Ken in weeks! Would have had to have been some form of Immaculate Conception."

I twist my mouth into a smile, but at this point, it's only gallows humour and there's no hiding that fact from my mother and my sister. Once more, they exchange a pointed glance and I can't even blame them.

"Your grandparents mentioned that there have been several unkind articles in recent weeks," Mum remarks thoughtfully. "I wasn't sure how much they affected you though. You seemed to be holding up well."

(George would probably beg to differ. He's the one who witnesses me in my most despondent moments, after all.)

I'm putting up a good front, is the truth. I decided a while ago that there's no sense in worrying my family. They aren't able to help me anyway, so there's nothing to be accomplished by complaining to them from half a world away. And besides…

"I shouldn't whine, really." I try to raise a smile that I hope is convincing – or at least brave. "It's my decision and it always was my decision. You were the ones being dragged into this."

"We're fine," Joy declares quickly. "I mean, having US immigration after us wasn't much fun, but in the end, I think it all turned out for the best. I love doing what I'm doing now and I might not have done it had things been different." She waves a wooden spoon in my direction for emphasis.

I incline my head, feeling grateful for her reassurances. "I'm glad." And I mean it. "But whenever I look at how the papers treated Nan all this year…" I leave the sentence hanging. Monday's cold nose presses against my hand and I absent-mindedly stroke his head.

"Nan's strong," Mum assures me and squeezes my shoulder. "She had a tough year and the publicity didn't help, but she has plenty of mettle. She's already looking forward again, throwing herself into her studies. And I think the paparazzi mostly leave her alone now."

"They do now, but they didn't some months ago," I argue, grimacing slightly. "I agree though that Nan was beautiful about it, holding her head high and not letting it get to her. She would have been perfectly justified in blaming me, but she never did and I'm really grateful for it. It's also why I'll stop complaining now, because if Nan got through it, so can I. After all, I brought this on myself, didn't I?"

"Debatable," mutters Joy and cracks an egg with perhaps more force than necessary.

But Mum gives me an encouraging smile. "You know you can always come to us for support, but I must say I'm impressed by your courage." She looks from me to Joy and back again, her expression suddenly a little wistful. "What did I do to deserve four such brave daughters?"

(Honestly, I think Jem's absence is getting to her a little. It's the first time she hasn't had all of us around her at Christmas and though she's putting up a brave front, it does change things.)

"Is this where I say that you deserve it because you were the one to raise us into brave women?" enquires Joy, her voice innocent, but a definite glint in her eye.

"Yes, this would be an adequate moment," agrees Mum, herself looking distinctly amused.

Hearing them joke, I feel myself relax. Looks like the difficult talk is over for the moment. Monday also seems to sense it and barks once, wagging his tail against the kitchen floor.

It's just as well that the topic has shifted, since moments later, Shirley sticks his head through the door to announce, "If anyone is interested, Rilla's future father-in-law will be addressing his subjects in a few minutes."

I make a point to roll my eyes at him, but he just grins and disappears back into the hall.

(What's with everyone suddenly bothering me about marriage anyway? Ken and I are not even living in the same country, for Heaven's sake! What do they think he'll do? Propose via Skype? Send a pigeon?)

Thankfully steering clear of the subject of marriage, Mum asks, "You're getting along well with Ken's family, aren't you? His father seemed very fond of you when we met him in Oxford."

"They're pretty great," I confirm, softening slightly. "Persis has been very generous about sharing her horses with me and Teddy is just a lovely person all around. Owen seems to enjoy introducing me to various historical buildings with royal connections."

"So you're really hobnobbing with the royals now, aren't you?" Joy wants to know and despite the flippant words, her tone is kind.

I shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable, "I've been pretty busy with work this autumn, so haven't seen that much of them in recent weeks. But in spring and summer, I was over at Windsor quite a bit, especially after graduation, when Ken was away on his tour to India. Once, when Persis and I got absolutely drenched while riding out, they even insisted I stay the night. It was very Pride and Prejudice, just without the scheming."

"Stay the night? At Windsor Castle?" echoes Mum, a slight catch in her voice.

(I know I didn't share that bit of information with them before. I didn't know how to work it in and besides, it felt awkward. It still does, but both Mum and Joy have a talent for making you say more than you want to, especially face-to-face.)

"Where did you sleep? Just some generic guest room or did they give you the bed of some famous royal of times past?" asks Joy, untypically interested in the subject.

Alas, I shake my head no. "I stayed in the Prince of Wales Tower, that is, in Ken's bedroom."

What I don't say is that it might as well have been a guest room for what little personality it held. There were barely any personal effects, with the exception of some books, though those might also have come from the castle library. In one of the wardrobes, I found a few suits and shirts, but they didn't look like that had been worn in a while and anyway, they didn't smell of him either, which I discovered when I borrowed one of the shirts to sleep in. All in all, if I hadn't known them to be Ken's rooms, I probably wouldn't have guessed it either.

Looking from Mum to Joy, I find both of them looking back at me, their expressions identically odd, and I remember why I told no-one about my stay at Windsor. I don't want to be looked at oddly. Here, of all places, I just want to be myself.

Not that the universe is ready to grant that wish, because Dad choses that moment to knock on the door and stick his head inside to inform us that the King's Speech is just starting. (Cue even more odd looks in my direction!) I have half a mind to escape, or at least stay inside the kitchen, but Joy shoos us out with the assurance that she's fine on her own and with Mum's arm around my shoulder, an inconspicuous escape is possible.

Leaving Joy (and a beseeching Monday) to the dinner preparations, Mum and I cross over to the living room, where the others have already convened.

It's an unusually small group this time. With Jem and Faith gone and Nan and Jerry broken up, there was no immediate reason to celebrate with the Merediths this year, so for the first time in a while, they haven't come over for Christmas. Of course, we saw everyone in the church this morning (except for Una, who now has a permanent congregation in the violently named North Battleford). I also know Nan is glad not to have to spend dinner sitting across from Jerry (and Jerry is probably glad not to spend it sitting across from Di), but it does make things rather quieter than usual. (Of course, the lack of Jem contributes to that. Jem is rarely quiet.)

Just outside the living room, I stop, hovering on the threshold. (Somewhere, Frosty the Snowman plays.) Mum's arm slips from my shoulders and she turn to look at me. Dad, too, inclines his head to the side, his expression questioning.

"Would it be alright if I watched in your study instead?" I ask him.

"Of course," he answers. "Is anything the matter?"

They're both clearly concerned now, so I quickly shake my head. "No, it's fine. I just think it might be… awkward."

This time, Mum exchanges a long glance with Dad (why is everyone non-verbally communicating about me today?), before both look back at me.

Mum touches my cheek. "Go ahead."

Dad brushes a hand over my hair. "We'll see you later."

Not needing to be told twice, I give them both a vague smile, before crossing the hall to slip into Dad's study. It's quiet here, and gloriously deserted.

Briefly, I consider not watching the speech at all, but there's a chance Owen might ask me about it when I see him next and that would be even more awkward. Better to watch it and not have to make something up.

The opening of the speech is generic enough. He begins by talking a little about the spirit of Christmas and about how it's a time to spend with family and friends, both new and old. After that, there's a brief overview of political and otherwise notable events that happened in 2013, including the 20th anniversary of his own accession to the throne, accompanied by a montage showing the various events the royals attended to mark the occasion.

"Of course, the year also held important milestones for my family," Owen continues and the camera briefly pans to a framed picture of his family standing next to him. "I myself was honoured to attend not one or two, but three graduation ceremonies this year. As a King and as a father, I am unspeakably proud to see our children forge ahead and build their lives, both in service to this country and in pursuit of their own happiness."

Again, the picture of Owen on the screen gives way to photos taken at the graduation ceremonies of his children. First, there's Persis, all decked out in her graduation robes and sitting astride a horse (Alix, to be specific). The next picture shows Teddy, standing between both his parents, looking quietly pleased and not as ridiculous as most people do in graduation robes. The last picture is of Ken and Owen talking in front of The Bod – and with a jolt I realise that the figure at the side of the frame, face in profile and half-hidden by hair, is me.

It would be easy to put it off as an accident. Maybe there were no better pictures of Ken and Owen on graduation day or maybe some underling didn't look too closely at who else was present in the photo. But if I learned anything at all about Owen is that he has a very fine sense for public presentation and public perception. He doesn't do these things accidentally. They showed a picture with me in it because he wanted them to. Whatever that means.

"Last, but never least, I want to direct some words to my beautiful wife," continues TV-Owen. "It was on this day thirty years ago that she made me the happiest of men by pledging to share her life with me. In these thirty years, she has brought joy and compassion not only to me and my family but also to this country, and I know I'm not alone in thanking her for her love and devotion. Leslie, you light up the life of everyone you meet and you certainly made mine many times brighter."

Those are surprisingly candid words for a king (especially this king) and they're enough to have the two TV presenters on duty immediately latching on to them. The moment Owen's face has faded from the screen, they pop up, like a pair of too-chipper muppets.

"Well, Jenny, wasn't that romantic?" asks the man.

"Very romantic, Bob," agrees the woman. "It's a rare admission of love from an otherwise private king."

"And made to an even more private queen!" exclaims the man. "Will Her Majesty appreciate these words of honesty from her husband?"

"Who's to know, Bob?" responds the woman cryptically. "Few are privy to what the Queen thinks."

"That is undoubtedly true, Jenny," acknowledges the man. "Among other things, no-one has yet found out what she truly thinks of her eldest son's current squeeze."

Behind them, a picture of me appears as I walk down some nondescript London street and I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. Do they really have to?

"There has been intense speculation, but no confirmation of her opinion, Bob," explains the woman. "The King himself is said to be quite fond of Rilla Blythe though. That she was included in the picture of the Prince of Wales's graduation was no accident!"

"I shouldn't think it was," replies the man. "Though whether he will still think so fondly of her once he's heard what our next guest has to say, remains to be seen."

Instinctively, I feel myself tense up. What now?

"That is absolutely the question," agrees the woman, sounding altogether too cheerful. "We will leave it to our viewers to decide. But first, let's welcome Chad Johnson and listen to what he has to say."

Chad Johnson?

Never heard of him.

I just begin to relax again, thinking it's yet another made-up drivel, but then the camera pans to the side, showing a man entering the studio and something within me clenches. The name might not ring a bell, but when I see his face, a memory floats to the surface from some dark, usually ignored corner of my brain. I remember his face, I remember him, and when I realise who he is, the sinking feeling in my stomach turns to pure dread.

Mexico Guy.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Cold as Ice' (written by Lou Gramm and Mick Jones, released by Foreigner in 1977).


To JoAnna:
In fairness, the phone calls are scheduled because Ken can't really manage his own time. When his commanding officers tell him to be out by his airplane at 11pm, he better be out by his airplane at 11pm. His training guarantees that he's less flexible than ever, so while I imagine not all their contact is pre-planned, it's just easier to check when they're both free and schedule calls for that time. Probably makes the most of the little shared free time they have.
Rilla does absolutely exhibit a somewhat petulant and childish streak in deliberately not telling Ken about working at the party. She knows that if
he had known, he might have intervened (via Hew) and she doesn't want his help right now. There's a sense of "you left me, so you don't get to help me" to her thinking. Not at all helpful, but then, feelings so rarely are.
No worries about Mark though! He's not afraid of Ken (none of his friends are and Mark especially not) and he's not the type to be bullied into doing something he doesn't want to do. I mean, sure, as Ken's friend, he feels it's his job to look out for Rilla, but that's more because he cares for Ken and, by extension, for Rilla as well. Ken's not there to check up on her, so Mark does it instead (just like Teddy). It's all very friendly and harmless :).
Dating someone in the public eye must be pretty awful (unless you crave public attention yourself, that is), and dating an actual royal must be worst of all. It's like the press and public assume that just because the person you love is in the public eye, you suddenly become public property as well. Technically, a royal girlfriend (or boyfriend) is still a private individual, but you wouldn't know it from the constant attention directed at them. I think that'd be hard on anyone and I tried to show that here with Toppy. On paper, she has everything going for her, but even she resented parts of being Ken's girlfriend. Rilla's not alone in this.
(I
do have opinions on a certain real life prince's decisions. I shall not voice them though. Let's simply say it with old Frederick II: "May everyone find happiness in their own fashion.")

To Mammu:
I really don't know if there's some rule against dating your friend's ex-girlfriend. If there is, let's just assume Ken and Hew had a talk and everyone is being very adult about this ;). And yes, I also feel a bit sorry for Toppy. Of course, her situation is mostly of her own making (she could totally go and become a surfing instructor in Bali - there's nothing stopping her but her own fears), but it's a bit of a tricky situation to be in regardless.
I do think we still like Tatty, or at least I hope so. I see her as someone who's super nice and helpful when she likes someone, but somewhat moody and judgemental when she dislikes someone. She's still mostly a nice person, but everyone has some not-so-nice sides and this is hers. And in fairness, I believe Toppy wasn't blameless when it came to creating that shared animosity. Those two just don't see eye to eye.
Oh no! Ken's friends don't all date his ex-girlfriends. I believe Hew and Toppy are a first. Mark is mostly alluding to the fact that Ken's friends are used to him coming first. Hew probably has an idea that Toppy still has some lingering feelings for Ken, but he learned early on that if in doubt, Ken is more important than anyone else and that there's no use resenting that. That's why he can live with Toppy's prevailing feelings for Ken specifically, whereas I don't think he could have lived with them if it was, say, Mark, instead of Ken. It's just a mark of how being friends with a price is slightly different than being friends with Joe Average. You make sacrifice you otherwise wouldn't make.
The review was perfectly fine :). And I know all about busy! My life's pretty crazy right now and I keep thinking I might have to put the story on hold until things have calmed down again, but then I read all of your lovely comments and they're a large part of what keeps me going. They remind me that this is fun and I shouldn't let the craziness beat out the things I actually enjoy. And so, we soldier on ;).